


White Flag

by beforeyouspeak



Series: Whenever You’re Ready [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-21
Updated: 2020-05-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:35:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24309844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beforeyouspeak/pseuds/beforeyouspeak
Summary: Hermione can't seem to stop running into Bellatrix Black. And she isn't sure that she wants to.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Bellatrix Black Lestrange
Series: Whenever You’re Ready [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1826734
Comments: 7
Kudos: 198





	White Flag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Stargazer_01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stargazer_01/gifts).



> This is probably not the sort of fic that most expect to see from me (or that I expect from myself). Stylistically it is different and certainly in subject matter. There is far more angst than is usual for me. But learning and trying new things is important for us all. 
> 
> "Growth and comfort cannot co-exist." - Ginni Rometty
> 
> "You touch me and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I’m not sure what peace is supposed to feel like but I think it may feel a lot like you." -anatomy-of-rains (via wnq-writers)

Hermione stared forlornly out of the muggle coffee shop. She squeezed warm mug in her hands tighter. It was nearly too hot to hold, but she didn’t mind the burn. On days like today, she needed the reminder she was alive, that things hurt sometimes. She knew in the very core of her being that she was a survivor. After making it through everything that was the second wizarding war, there was little that she didn’t think she could navigate her way through if the need was great enough.

She was at the point of wondering if she was built for suffering or if it was time for her to get help. She tried to trace back when this path had started. Like most vaguely tortured souls, she looked first to her childhood. Being an unexpectedly magical child in a world that denied the existence of magic was a burden she would wish on no one. She had learned at a young age to just suppress who she was. Then there was her rough introduction Hogwarts. She had tried so genuinely hard to fit in. In retrospect, far too hard. Eventually, she had made friends.

She would never be entirely sure if they liked her for more than her intelligence. She surrendered her adolescence to the cruelty of war. She was in it up to her neck before she had really understood that there was a war. Her innocence slipped away without her even knowing it until she was held to the floor in Malfoy Manor. She knew then the full depth of human suffering. In the curtain of Bellatrix Lestrage’s hair, she bore witness to her own pain and to that of the woman above her. It took her a very long time to understand why she had reacted so strongly to the witch’s obvious suffering. The Deatheater was no well off victor; she was closer to starved wild animal.

Then there had been the final battle. Hermione still shuddered at the memory. Even sitting in her favorite coffee shop, the smell of it filled her nostrils and threatened to overcome her. She did her best to shake it off. Dwelling on it much longer would mean that the ghosts would linger with her for days.

Though it was not the ghosts of her dead friends haunting her today. The push and pull of the curly headed witch consumed her. Against the advice of the advice of everyone who knew and cared for her, Hermione stood for the new widowed Bellatrix Black at her trial. She advocated for the humane treatment of those who had been foot soldiers. It was hardly a blank cheque for the witch to be free any do anything she wanted. Instead of returning to Azkaban, she would undergo years of treatment and reintegration.

Hermione hadn’t considered she would become oddly central to Bellatrix’s life. The witch showing up on her doorstep to make amends had been jarring, not only because it was at 2 am. Hermione had been just in sleeping clothes and wandless, not expecting anyone to know where she lived. At the sight of the woman looking uncertain, she had opened the door wider and let her in.

For the next six hours, she listened at her kitchen table to the witch’s life story. Bellatrix was intelligent, engaging, hilarious, and anguished. Hermione stepped out of herself and her own agony for those hours allowing a genuine bond to form. She made tea and breakfast, not wanting the witch to stop talking. Bellatrix was nothing like she had expected. Nothing like the _Daily Prophet_ had let her believe.

Particularly not when she carried her teacup to the sink and Hermione looked up into the black eyes. There was so much in those depths and such connection from the intense morning that she pressed a chaste kiss against her lips without thinking about the consequences. Bellatrix was warm and solid against her. She held her closer for just a moment before releasing Hermione. With a soft look and not a single word, she walked out.

It was six more months before Hermione even caught sight of her again.

In that time, Hermione had attempted not to linger on her need to kiss the witch or that the night of insanity had even happened. But late at night when her mind just couldn’t let her sleep, she felt the threads of connection to the woman. The scar on her arm still burned from time to time, causing her to suspect that there might be a lingering magical connection between them. But she had seen too much to be overly concerned with scars, after all everyone who survived the war had them. And while Bellatrix hadn’t apologised, Hermione now knew the storm that had been surrounding the witch during the war.

On one such morning when she was sleep deprived and commuting on foot to the Ministry for work, she nearly stepped out into a cyclist as she rounded a corner. Instead of the pain her brain had expected on impact, she was propelled backwards into a brick wall. She would have hit her head roughly had a warm hand not protectively curled around the back of her skull. She struggled to pull oxygen into her lungs while processing the warm body and familiar scent of the women who had saved her.

“Be more cautious, Muddy,” Bellatrix whispered harshly in her ear.

Hermione closed her eyes against the voice and feel of the body. Unfamiliar want flooded her senses, but before she could even open her eyes, it was gone. She blinked against the sunlight and wondered if she had dreamed it.

She languished for weeks over her reaction to the woman. Hermione was self aware enough to know that she had no interest in men, but to be so utterly drawn to a witch as complicated as Bellatrix Black was a different thing entirely.

Just when she had decided the connection was an apparition, she was pulled from sleep again in the middle of the nigth. Before she even got out of bed, she knew who she would find on the other side of the door.

She couldn’t hold back the grin pulling at the corners of her mouth as she opened the door. The dark witch didn’t return the smile, but Hermione knew she was not displeased. They went to the kitchen again, but Bellatrix snatched the kettle before Hermione could get to it and started making tea.

Hermione provided mugs and tried not to sink into the feeling of how natural it felt to have Bellatrix in her kitchen in the middle of the night.

“Tell me about your life,” the dark witch asked when they sat down.

Hermione took a deep breath and started from the beginning.

When the birds started to sing and dawn was breaking, tears flowed steadily down her face. She spoke of the death of her parents and friends and clung to the hand that Bellatrix offered.

When she had finished the story and the crying, they sat in comfortable silence fingers still intertwined. The look in the dark eyes made Hermione think about being kissed, though neither of them moved.

“I should go. You have work,” the witch said more gently than Hermione expected.

“Could we...”

“No,” Bellatrix whispered. “No, I shouldn’t have even come this time.”

“But,” Hermione tried to object.

But the witch had already apparated away.

Hermione caught her head in her hands trying to understand the tears filling her eyes. She was unaccustomed to being outwardly emotional. And couldn’t put words to why she would cry over such a tenuous association with a former enemy.

That day was the first she had spent sitting in the very chair she was in now. She had taken the day away from work. She couldn’t imagine walking into the Ministry and pretending to be ok. The coffee shop offered significant anonymity. Everyone was buried in their own work and paid her no mind. The hours of privacy allowed Hermione to bury the vulnerability and push away any feeling of connection. She did her best not to think of the witch. The sheer intensity of being around her was as addicting as any magical rush she had ever experienced.

The absence of Bellatrix felt like a gift this time. Hermione did her dead-level best to not dwell on those nights in the months that followed. After their kiss, she hadn’t noticed that she had been feeling the dark witch’s presence even when she didn’t see her. She tried not to feel bereft at the loss of it.

Hermione was clever enough to list the dozens of reasons why whatever connection they had would certainly be a bad idea. But her gut feeling could not be reasoned with. She had no way of knowing if it was natural or due to the magic carved into her skin. But she did know that identifying the cause changed nothing about the outcome.

She had tried to shake off the feeling of the dark witch’s arms around her and lips on her’s. The attempt at dating _and more_ went absolutely nowhere. She couldn’t get past the first lack luster conversation.She couldn’t stand that their eyes showed every bit of how much they did not and _could not_ understand Hermione in all of her complexity.

Hermione understood that she had no choice but to surrender to the loneliness. In trying to come to grips with what it would mean for her life, she had withdrawn from the magical world. Her boss had been more than happy to give her time away and her friends thought her on some tropical island. She hadn’t wanted to lie to them, but her desire to keep her location to herself overrode her usual sense of morality. No one knew her in the muggle world, and she was simply allowed to be.

Now, her coffee was lukewarm and nearly gone. The rain hitting the windowpanes of the shop was hypnotic, but she was antsy to move. She had been still for hours reminiscing and the only escape from her thoughts she had found was walking the city. She gathered her things and stepped out into the rain. She did nothing to protect herself from being soaked. The chilly rain was a welcome counterpoint to the coffee and warm shop. She made her way towards her apartment unbothered by the rumbling thunder around her. Being out in storms made her _feel_ , something that she struggled to do on most days.

She felt the presence before she acknowledged it.

“Where have you been,” Bellatrix bit out from behind her.

“Why does it matter,” Hermione shot back.

“You _know_ why.”

“I am certain that I do not. You show up in the middle of the night, we spill our secrets and then you disappear. You want me to feel your presence, but you don’t want to let have it. I’m allowed to do what I want with my holiday from work, Bellatrix.” Hermione was too tired to fight, but was unwilling to let the witch have the upper-hand.

“You’re shivering,” Bellatrix said stepping closer.

“Yes. Thank you for that observation. I was on my way home. If you would please excuse me,” Hermione said attempting to move around her.

“Mine is closer.”

Hermione spun and stared.

“Why would I want to come with you?”

Bellatrix exhaled and looked defeated.

“You shouldn’t want to, for so many reasons. But despite my better judgement, I want nothing more than to be closer to you. I can see you are suffering and I know it is at least partially because of me. Let me try to fix it.”

“I’m not sure I can do that. I don’t know how to trust that you won’t just apparate away,” Hermione mumbled reluctantly.

“Well,” Bellatrix said smirking, “I am rather unlikely to run away from my flat.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“I’m not keen on being kicked out either.”

Bellatrix tilted her head and reached out her hand. Hermione slowly reached out and took it, allowing the witch to pull her to her side. The touch thundered through her her veins. She felt like she could breathe again. She couldn’t remember the last time she could fill her lungs and have her mind quiet.

She allowed herself to follow, no longer concerned about the wet or cold or destination. Bellatrix’s flat was closer than her own and rather unassuming. Hermione surrendered herself to the care of the older witch. She allowed Bellatrix to slowly and softly remove her sodden clothes before wrapping her in a warm towel. Though deeply intimate, the dark witch didn’t escalate. As she helped Hermione re-dress in a borrowed set of clothes, she ran the pads of her fingers over the scar on her forearm.

Bellatrix didn’t apologise, instead she led Hermione to her bedroom. Hermione watched as the fully clothed witch climbed beneath the covers reaching out her hand in invitation. Hermione took it and settled her body against that of the person who knew some of her most closely guarded secrets. Her head fit on Bellatrix’s shoulder like it had been made for her. She sunk into the feeling of safety and comfort in a way she had never known with the least likely person she could imagine.

She shut her eyes in the silence of the room and her mind. Immediately, Hermione felt sleep pulling at her. The tightening of the arm said _stay_ in ways words would have failed. She wanted to respond. There were so many things still to say, but the time and space were a gift she could not turn down. She let the feeling of safety fill her up and consume her last waking thought.


End file.
